


Glockenspiel Drafts

by eoKingdomDom



Series: Terabitten Mute Drafts [8]
Category: Besstrashny Plamyah, Original Work
Genre: Aliens, Chaos, Comedy, Damselfly is only mentioned, Humour, Interspecies Relationship(s), Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Science Fiction, Shitty first impressions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26306596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoKingdomDom/pseuds/eoKingdomDom
Summary: A collection of chronologically ordered scenes from the Terabitten Mute's third (and so far biggest) chapter: Glockenspiel. Contains some description of my alien characters and portrays their oddly familiar, but nonetheless bizarre behaviour.
Relationships: Dactory/Rade/Glockenspiel (Besstrashny Plamyah), Dactory/Vitra (Besstrashny Plamyah), Ellixander/Dorothy (Besstrashny Plamyah)
Series: Terabitten Mute Drafts [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856098
Kudos: 1
Collections: Besstrashny Plamyah





	1. Strange Names

Some people give their children strange names. Looking at the drugged-up hipsters who conceived Ellixander would tell you that. They thought the cross of Ellie and Alexander was utterly novel. Not at all a hole in the persona, that could be nipped into with the teeth of bullying. No, of course not, there had to be another reason she couldn’t bear school, surely…

Some people give their children strange names.

There’s those who, from the sanctuary of their dining room chair, drink the flesh of their camomile tea and ponder. They hear the way something frisky in a piece of music chimes, they hear the melody of the song’s soul flutter from one side of the room to the other. The finch flitting out of the roar. And name their child accordingly.

Glockenspiel is one such individual.

Raised with the intricate hand of etiquette, footsteps are soft, delicate, in their trespass of the grandiose hallway. Pattering like a feline, they stalk, stepping into the emotional territory. Glockenspiel is a creature with a mouth, and it’s trained for the combat of tongue. Words hang up ideas on clothes pegs, letting them sway in the wind. From a mouthpiece such as theirs is a voice that carries its tones with unadulterated eloquence. From solid to airy, their variance is so dramatic that the voice is said to sublime. In appropriation, Glockenspiel can talk the chime and the space between the notes. From such elegance is a sensation so phantom many confuse it with attraction. This is the plan. The rapport.

The content of such sounds often hold a meaning designed with precision. Perhaps it is to compel, to inspire, to hurt. Whatever the purpose, Glockenspiel will pick until they get what they want. Toying with the emotional fragility of another is something they take great pleasure in doing, and it’s disturbingly obvious. Like a spider on its web, they do everything in their power to create a sensory trap, which they use as a playground. The first element is sound, the second is visual.

Carved upon a habitually starved body is their dress-code, clothing colour-coordinated to everything somewhat Christmas and chaos. Around their waistline, a metallic ring of gold shimmers with its expensive tell of dominance, brilliant scarlet wraps above and below to slice what could almost be described as wounds along their thorax, screaming with a sensuality so masochistic that it hurts. Branching out from the waist is the pointed fabric of a verdant green. It forms sharpened leaves around their neck, collaring them with an appearance some may find threatening. Looking into the sternness of their matching green eyes would seal this fate. Glockenspiel is incredibly dangerous.

Not only do they dress with an extravagance to hypnotise, not only do they speak with a voice that _cuts._ They hold the reins of some of the deadliest minds in the universe. The kind of intellectuals who tore the needle out of their moral compass years ago, or the kind who never had one in the first place. The kind with a body built on the experience of torture. The kind who have the lack of care _to_ torture. Glockenspiel has such individuals at their arsenal, and, as a Spokesperson, only needs to speak. The breath of the universe sways to their words.

However, the complex ritual of linguistic beauty is hard to keep intact. It’s tedious, exhaustive, not cut out for common speech. Therefore, Glockenspiel would think as they adjust the juts of their prodding collar, today is a good day to just _scream._

No reason, it’s just funny.


	2. Upon First Inspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A really fucking BEAUTIFUL first impression of my alien characters and their sheer incompetence in communicating with humans. You will be so disappointed in them.
> 
> Also Dactory offers to make tea?? Fuck where's mine?

Upon first inspection, these creatures look like nothing more than circus freaks, upright coelophysis dressed in colours you’d prefer to decorate your grave with. They’re bipedal, and look nothing like Exolode. Arms and legs are long and sylphlike. A raptor-like head is propped on top of their tall necks. Feathers of differing colours cover their scalps, trailing down their necks and tufting from the tip of their coiled tails. Soft eyelashes flutter, flowing into marvellous streamers that flare out from behind their eyes. The streamers move. Bending, curling and flickering like the tail of a cat. Upon first inspection, these creatures seem to perfectly balance the concept of animal and beautiful. 

One leans against a wall to the right, standing behind what looks like a beanbag. They appear to be a mixed race individual, adorned in cream summer clothes and a puffed-out lavender skirt. They make very little indication of interest, perking up, then immediately averting eyes to their glossy… hand. The fingers look like tongues, plum in colour and flexing in an almost liquid manner. 

To the far left is the palest creature, skin being pink, yet mottled black on their shoulders like a dog’s might be. By skin complexion, Ellix can deduce this creature must be more of an elder. Regardless, they dress light, with collars of wool wrapped around their neck, wrists and waist. The colour looks like it was supposed to be a ruby pink, but got faded in the wash. A black bracelet hangs around each ankle. Or technically, since these creatures stand on the balls of their feet, on the arches. This individual appears more intrigued, face lifting at the sight of guests. 

In the middle is the centrepiece of this surreal trio. Spines of vibrant green erupt from their chest in a display of absolute anarchy. The curves of their figure striped in an eye-bleeding red and glittery gold. Everything about the outfit is sharp and painful to look at, and the bared legs stand the creature up like an ornament. Their arms are akimbo. Their tail swishes side-to-side. This creature, out of the three, seems _tenaciously_ confident. Which is a bit fucking bold of an individual who seems to be wearing an elf costume. If these aliens weren’t standing near nine foot tall, and this one in particular wasn’t boring down with meticulous eyes, Ellix would have made a comment.

Upon further inspection, it becomes horrifyingly apparent that these creatures don’t just possess two eyes. Oh no. That would be too kind. Although their streamers are elegant, what lies on the ends of these hairy appendages makes both Ellix and Dorothy shudder. Eyes. Dozens of tiny, unblinking pupils locked upon them, watching their every breath, every twitch, every swallow. Upon further inspection, Ellix and Dorothy have the very compelling urge to back up against the wall. 

The one in the elf costume, however, seems to be vaguely amicable. They have one of their streamers partially docked. Dorothy can’t lie that she’s a little intrigued as to how, and surprised with how the creature doesn’t even seem phased by it, instead flicking the shorter appendage and smiling.

“G’day!” they break the stunned silence, stepping closer, “Welcome aboard Kell-Ryva, only the most opulent exploratory cruiser in this craptmosphere of the cosmos!” Their voice lowers, “Swear to fuck we all need fucking help with our priorities.”

Ellix snorts, Dorothy just gives a scrutinising look. 

The creature continues, “Anyhow, name’s Glockenspiel, glad to meet yous!” they spring out their right arm to Ellix with intentions to shake hands. Tentative, Ellix slips her hand close enough to have it wrapped in the purple tentacles and shook firmly. Dorothy copies, utterly shocked by the concept of actually _feeling_ the alien’s hand in hers. This hallucination must be… very vivid. Glockenspiel, or at least Glock if you’ve reached my peak of laziness, resumes their little induction, “Apologies for the lack of notice before yeeting yous both here, but we weren’t sure strolling up to yous and going ‘Hewwo, we aliens, we cometh to abduct yees!’ was gonna go down well on the press. So yeah, had to kinda fool yous onboard to make sure that one: it worked. And two: the rest of the Astros didn’t notice. And, uh… yeah, sorry about the electrocution. Exolode and Rade had to take you by pod here, and to be honest, yous wouldn’t have wanted to be conscious enroute. Just unnecessary panic.”

“Oh,” Dorothy wouldn’t particularly call that a good excuse. Moreover, she will be wanting to know why this had to happen in the first place. And in secret? “So why are we here? And why isn’t anyone else allowed to know.”

“Good questions! You’re here predominantly out of our own curiosity. We’ve been wanting to make some contact with humans for a while now. Behavioural research and whatnot.”

“Eww! You better not be making us do fucking IQ tests or something!” Ellix spits out, “I’m shit at those.”

“I wonder why...” Dorothy gives her a smirk.

Glock laughs, “Oh hell no! It’s mainly just observation. Seeing how yous live, working out how to interact with yous. I mean we've already leapt the language barrier.”

“I noticed,” Dorothy says, thoughtful, “What were the odds of that?” If Dorothy could look at the audience right now, then that’s exactly what she’d be doing. Staring, pondering, waiting until everyone realises just how fucking basic I am. 

… Did I just break the fifth wall? Right! Fuck it! Let’s just keep going! 

Glockenspiel decides to just shrug off the question. Noticing Dorothy’s tension, they turn to the older creature and whisper something inscrutable, there’s a nod in reply. Glock turns back to Dorothy, “Right, well, the reason we did this privately rather than just introducing ourselves to your race is for our own safety. The Earthers don’t know about us yet, and I wouldn’t want your Astro authorities telling them. Earthers got nuclear weapons, and we’d rather not be on the business end of one.”

“Fair enough,” Ellix mutters, shifting uncomfortably, “So how come you know about Astros and Earthers?”

Glockenspiel looks back to the older alien. They give an understanding smile and walk over. Well, I’d say walk, but these creatures have legs like that of a secretary bird, and step accordingly. Put simply, they _strut._ And there’s good reason for why I put emphasis on that word. 

“We have been researching the human race for quite some time, my darling,” The elder’s voice is deeper, sprauncy, like they’re straight out of a formal dinner party, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dactory and I tend to do most of reading up on the likes of yourselves. _She”_ —they point to Glockenspiel—"likes to pretend to. But yes, it should be no surprise that I heard about the launch of Mothership and the divide it caused.”

“Where do you get the information from then?” Dorothy asks, “You’re aliens. How would yous know?”

“Fairly sordid means, dear,” Dactory replies, they chuckle accordingly, “However, before we receive the Spanish Inquisition, would anyone like tea?”

“Fuck aye!” Exolode pipes up, “You making it?”

“Yes.”

All the aliens give Dactory a startled look. Glockenspiel puts a hand on their head, “You feeling alright there Dac?” They bat her hand away and give her a very half-assed “Ahh shaddup!” 

Dorothy is shocked that these creatures would even have tea. Aren’t they aliens? _Oh._ Dorothy smiles in realisation, it’s because this is a dream.

“Mine’s a double coffee! And by that I mean two tablespoons.”

“Charming... ” Dactory sighs, “Rade? You want tea?”

The alien in the purple skirt, presumably Rade, perks up, "Um, no actually. I'll have hot chocolate. Three spoons and milk please!"

"Ooooh! Can I have hot chocolate too?" Ellix chirps.

"It's Rade's. You'd have to ask her," Dactory explains.

"Oh," Ellix turns to her, "Well, could I have some?"

Rade gives a look of distaste. There's a hollow sound as she takes a step. From behind the beanbag, a metal boot polished in a deep violet is revealed. She walks over to Ellix with heavy trots, letting her staggering height crumble any sense of bravery. Rade stands so close that her shadow seems to consume Ellixander's entire stature. She sighs, and her voice smells a little too sweet when she speaks, "I get that you're a guest and all, but we're talking Options hot chocolate."

"Ahh, that's the real fancy stuff. How'd you get that?"

"Exolode gets it for me, and it _is_ the good stuff," Rade's streamers curl above her head, maroon eyes locking into a stare. Most of her feathers are short, round, black in colour. But three extended—potentially decorative—ones rise up like hackles. She has a golden nose-ring, hooked through the two nostrils on the right side of her snout, and it dangles mockingly, moving to any sniff.

"So… Am I allowed any?" Ellix chances her arm.

Rade is brightly contempt, "Nope! I'm not that generous," she leans down, going eye-to-eye with Ellix, hands clasped in lady-like measure. Her voice drops eerily low, but she still speaks with a smile, "I suggest you don't go near the Options, dear. That stuff is hard to come by."

Ellix cackles before replying, "Defensive much? It's alright, I won't."

"Good," Rade rises up tall again, giving both Ellix and Dorothy a firm glance, "Because just to put this on the table, if any of you two even touch my Options, I will probably destroy everyone you ever loved. So... maybe don’t.”

Ellixander bursts out laughing, brought to wheezing, "Fucking hell! You know I could probably believe you, being an alien and all."

Dorothy looks Rade up and down, noting her slender frame and how her cream blouse has an opening at the stomach, exposing some well-trained abdominal muscle. Out from her draping sleeves are thin forearms, ending in an anatomical phenomenon that is… unworldly. Each hand, as such, sports four quite flexible tentacles. They're attached to a smooth, spherical shape that looks like it was mushed into the arm like a fist into dough. Rade notices Dorothy's attention, and decides to make a disturbing motion. She moves one hand through a full 360° rotation without a falter. No snap back. Nothing. Any self-disrespecting human would break their wrist doing that, which is certainly _one_ way to get views on social media. However, these aliens seem to have a perfect rotary joint. Dorothy gives it a look of mortification, nothing in nature should be able to do that.

Ellix watches in awe, not really noticing the biological incontinuity, "That's freaky! Does it hurt?"

"No. Although maybe if I helicoptered it hard enough that it flew off, that might hurt."

"God Rade don't put that image into my head!" Dactory whines, they turn around sharply, "Right! I'm off to make tea before you say something else."

"You forgettin' something, Dac," Glockenspiel stops them. 

"Well, bar everything, I don't think so."

Glock points to Dorothy and Ellixander and coughs.

"Oh!" Dactory brings a hand to their mouth, "Apologies, my darlings! Of all the people to forget it had to be the guests, didn’t it?"

Dorothy giggles, it wouldn’t be the first time she’s done that. In fact, she managed to already make the tea and sit down beside her boyfriend at the time. She had even started sipping away while he gave her a weird look, and it took her a solid twenty seconds to realise why. In retrospect, it’s just hilarious to her. “It’s alright, you’re alright,” she reassures.

“Well, tea then? Or something else?”

Dorothy hesitates, contemplating whether or not it would be beneficial to taste something these aliens offer. Who knows? Could be poisonous? Or _God,_ what if they use Tetley? But more importantly, if this tea is something she can physically swallow and feel the burn of, it’s probably going to blow this whole hallucination theory out of water. In a way, that worries her. But fuck, she _has_ to know, "Tea please. Milk, no sugar."

"Got it. Ellixander? Tea?"

Dactory is met by a horrified stare, "You know my name!?"

It's at this point Dactory makes a little face of _oh shit._ They were intending to ask names, you know, to make it less creepy. Because I don't think describing the means in which Dactory found these names is a can of worms they wanted to open. At least not upon introduction. Anxious, they turn to Glockenspiel.

Glock sighs in annoyance, trying to conjure up an explanation that doesn't come off as _too_ awful, "We… Well… Yeah, long stor—"

"We asked Exolode," Rade fills in simply. 

Dactory and Glockenspiel both give her stunned look, but quickly agree. 

"Oh! Okay, fair enough," Ellix lowers her guard, "I'll have tea, same way as Dorothy."

"Alright then!" Dactory exclaims. They then pause, quietly pointing to each person and murmuring their order. Once satisfied they can make it to the kettle without forgetting what everyone wants, they leave the room.


	3. Upon Entry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the discussion of cultural and biological differences between the humans and aliens over a nice old cuppa tea. Get your fucking shots ready!

Upon entry, it seems that the conversation had progressed from penniless economy into Plamyah's anarchist society and population control. And now, it's simply derailed into Dorothy trying to pry answers for classic ethical questions in between Ellixander's mansplaining about how law _needs_ to exist for social peace. Dactory decides it best to plonk down the tray of beverages on the coffee table before proceeding to make any kind of statement. 

“Look, how the hell are you supposed to actually control the population without enforcement? What makes you _actually_ believe that everyone’s doing as they’re told? If people want kids they’ll have them.”

Ah yes, the Plamyan population, an beautifully appropriate topic given the circumstances of Mothership. Dactory chuckles, their deeper voice ploughing into the discussion with potency, Ellix turns to them as they hand her and Dorothy tea. “My darling, I will admit, it’s not that we can believe everyone’s doing as they’re told,” they begin, “I don’t expect everyone is. But control is done through the education of history to our kind, with the science behind the method, and that sets the general public view _wanting_ to stabilise the population.”

“I suppose, but what about conspiracists?” Dorothy leans forward, prodding.

Dactory compliments her with an equally dark tone, “They don’t tend to survive. There is no law to forbid murder.”

This gives Dorothy pause. A world where slaughter, among other offences, is allowed seems strange. It sounds like a concept right out of one of her less-than-noble sex fantasies. The idea of such chaos actually functioning is nothing short of illogical. Ellixander, despite her stubbornness, has a fair point. Regardless, Dactory sits down beside Dorothy with their tea, leaving everyone else to go nab theirs off the tray. Glock would’ve made a comment at the rudeness, but it’s honestly no surprise. They take a very tentative sip, wincing as it burns their tongue. Dorothy copies, but blows it first because she’s not being that dingus again. 

The tea is hot. I mean, it’s tea. What the fuck were you expecting? Upon sipping, her mouth loosens out of its groggy stickiness, and the relief is crumbling. God, it has just come to her attention that she hasn’t drank tea in a while, and by fuck she misses it. Another sip and it warms her throat into bliss. As Ellix goes on to discuss with Glock the ethical issue of killing for population control, we, as the Mothership Connoisseurs, can laugh in dramatic irony. Dorothy, too distracted by creature comforts, stares into her cup. In regards to hallucination, there's really nothing she can say. That tea is most definitely real, it felt nothing like a dream. Blinking, she certainly feels alert. Clear. But she is still in the beanbag, still in a strange livingroom, still surrounded by aliens. This isn’t fake. It musn’t be. She lets out a sigh, half in reverence that she’s still alive, but half in disappointment for the exact same reason. 

“Is that alright for you?” Dactory asks, “I used soya milk. I’m not entirely sure if that’s common for yourselves.”

Dorothy perks up, realising the question was for her, “Oh! Yes, I tend to use soya. Or almond, either works.”

There’s a warm smile in return to the statement, and it puts her at ease. Dactory, despite their eyes floating around to inspect every lick of her behaviour, seems quite genuine. They’re no theatrical hyperbole like Glockenspiel, or a _My Little Pony_ edgelord like Rade. They’re posh, yes, but nothing she can’t handle. Although, when up and personal, it seems that Dactory can read, “I’ll keep that in mind. But are you certain you’re alright? This must be odd for you.”

“Well, besides the fact that up until five seconds ago I thought I was dead, yeah I’m fine!” Dorothy replies, a little stingier than it should’ve been, “Everything feels a bit surreal. I mean, I wasn’t expecting an alien abduction was I?”

Dactory laughs, “Oh of course you weren’t! Nobody ever expects such things,” they bring a leg up to stroke their ankle brace, “You have to remember, dear, you _are_ the first contact. Nobody else, between both Mothership and Earth, have even a sniff of our existence.”

“So me and Ellix get the full brunt of the shock factor?” Dorothy asks jokingly, “Damn.”

“Indeed. If it wasn’t you it would’ve been someone else.” Dorothy sighs, “True,” she watches the delicacy in which they pet their accessory, “So what’s that?”

“Oh, the braces? They were gifts, from a lady called Damselfly,” Dactory’s voice goes soft, “I like wearing them.”

“They look nice,” Dorothy remarks, “Contrasts well.”

“Yeah, everything Glocky over there wouldn’t do,” They point a finger to the Christmas elf in question, earning a snicker from the Astro. “You know the worst thing?” “What?”

“She takes pride in that outfit.”

Dorothy snorts, gathering attention from others in the room. They stare, questioning her silently. It’s at this point she realises she’s got perhaps a little too much attention to run the numbers of that joke, but below and behold, Dactory is shameless.

“Apologies, Glock my dear, we were just having a very _analytical_ discussion of your outfit.”

“Ah yes, taking the piss no less?” Glockenspiel seems quite unphased. 

Dorothy, being the innocent little lovechild she is, clasps her hands together in a sharp move of utter virtue. The _“Noooo,”_ slips out from her lips in the exact way you would expect. You know, when a child tries to pretend that no, they did _not_ eat all the biscuits, they just… fell in the tea? Yeah, even Rade laughs at her prowess in displayed sarcasm. Glockenspiel just yawns, stretching out over the beanbag. They don’t give a shit.

“To be honest, it’s… colourful,” Ellix comments, “Like, I have a tie-dye shirt, but I hardly ever wear it. Do you guys have more liberation with clothes or something? You know, since law isn’t a thing.”

Dorothy turns to her, surprised at the formality of Ellixander’s language. Glockenspiel goes on to answer that, yes, there is more liberty in comparison to human society. “I think when you live in a place of anarchy and good resources, you’d want to spice things up with radical as fuck fashion. Besides, we strutters are renowned for aesthetics and sensuality, so clothes are pretty powerful assets for us.”

“Strutters?” Dorothy raises an eyebrow. 

_“Sensuality?”_ Ellix nearly chokes on her tea. Yes Ellix, aliens fuck, deal with it. 

Dactory cackles at the Astros’ naivety, prepared to sink their intellectual teeth into it, “You call yourselves humans, we call ourselves strutters. It’s the name of our species, derived from our gait, of course.”

“Oh.”

“And, ahem, the sensuality aspect is strictly a behavioral and anatomical trait. We reproduce sexually and our genitals are here,” They ghost their hands over the sides of their waistline, where their wool collar covers, “Two slits on each side, more accessible in comparison to human genitalia. Ergo there’s more talk about it. We also exercise polyamory more often, since we can conceive offspring with up to eight biological parents.”

“What the fuck!?” Ellixander squawks, “How? IVF?”

“No, organically, it’s due to most of our gametes only having an eighth of the chromosomes of a normal cell. So eight can join into one zygote.”

“Fucking hell…”

“What do you mean ‘fucking hell’?” Dorothy snaps at Ellix, “I’ve no fucking clue what half of this means!”

Ellix just laughs unhelpfully, swinging an arm around her confuddled partner, “Should’ve paid more attention to genetics in science, dear.”

“Ah fuck you! Teacher was boring as shit, okay? I learned more poking at grammatical errors in the textbook than anything,” She pauses for a moment, thinking, “Wait, do you actually know where human bits are?” She asks Dactory with a somewhat perturbed look.

Dactory is unnecessarily confident in their stroking gesture that hovers between their legs, “It would be concerning if I didn’t, dear.” 

Would it?

As Dactory continues to make the humans feel a little disconcerted with their detailed trek of anatomical description, not to mention the mechanics of their eyestalks, Rade and Exolode seem to be having their own little quiet discussion in the corner. Well, I’d say discussion, but it seems to be more light bullying than anything.

“Wow, a threeway with humans? Geez Exolode, thought you had standards.”

“I was hardly into it.”

“I mean,” Rade drops to a whisper, “You seemed pretty happy in the footage.”

“What? Fuck off!” He half-assedly slaps her arm, “I was smiling so they didn’t think I was uncomfortable. Also,” his voice goes quiet too, “Thought you weren’t interested in watching?”

“Ehh, got curious to be honest,” Rade replies, shrugging. She suddenly giggles, “Aw, bet you wanna sterilise yourself now?”

“Believe me, sterilise doesn’t even begin to cut it. I need to fucking bleach my insides.”

“Understandable.”

Their conversation is cut off when Ellixander yelps. Seems Dorothy slapped her for asking to see the said slits of strutter anatomy. Glockenspiel is a little taken aback, Dactory is just laughing hysterically. “I’m sorry about her, she’s a fucking embarrassment.”

“Look, I was only _asking!”_

“Ellixander!”

Dactory practically wheezes, trying to flap their hand in a forgiving gesture and splutter out words of reassurance. Once properly composed, they try to comfort the flustered Dorothy, “Oh needn’t worry dear, I know a good bit on you humans, and I know you can be quite sexualised too.”

“Interesting choice of words, Dac,” Glockenspiel sneers.

“Ah shush!” they give her a huffy glance, “But no, we did do our research. Got ahold of some human literature and archives. Not to mention the internet articles. God, that was a nightmare to scroll through. It was so unorganised and unfiltered. Not to mention more than I could ever read, near bloody died.”

Dorothy cocks her head, “Internet?”


	4. Gentle Discussion?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what I would like to define as CURSED WRITING.
> 
> I'm so sorry.

“So?” Glockenspiel twitches a streamer, “What do yous like to eat?”

Rade cocks her head in confusion.

“Uhh…” Ellix is dumped on the spot, she looks to Dorothy for some kind of answer.

“Chill ya wet biscuits,” Glock scoffs, “I’m not trying to make yous admit to that time you ate a whole pack of ham outta the fridge.”

Dorothy joins Rade in the joys of being very, very confused, “What the fuck is ham?”

See, one of the issues about being an Astro is the lack of flesh in your diet. Feeding animals for slaughter is an unnecessary energy use, and we all know how Mothership feels about energy loss. So the majority of Astros are stuck eating pulses and veggies without even the faintest idea that animals too can be consumed. Glockenspiel realises this belatedly after their comment, but if they’re being honest, they really cannot be _arsed_ trying to explain it. Instead, “Okay nevermind,” just comes out far easier. They stretch out their slight exasperation before continuing, “Look, me and Dac are gonna cook dinner, just need to know what kind of shit to cook you. So?”

Good, now everyone is onboard. Dorothy emits a vaguely gross noise which is supposed to be her indication that she’s in thought, it wouldn’t be that gross but for fuck sake it goes on for a good twenty seconds, getting more broken as it goes. Fucking hell, the audial image I have for it is actually disgusting, and no I’m not describing it. Believe me, you don’t want me t—

“I like anything with rice in it!” Ellix announces.

“Ohh yes!” Dorothy makes a swift agreement, ineffectively hiding the fact that she couldn’t think of anything herself.

“Okay cool,” Glock turns to Rade for a moment, softly discussing the supplies of packet risotto because it’s not like Dactory actually knows how to make the proper stuff. According to Rade, there’s enough in the cupboards to _build_ the fucking Titanic, let alone sink it.

In reality, there’s about five packets. Glock scrapes them out onto the counter and sifts through them, “So, shall we go with the mushroom or mediterranean veg one?”

“Ehh, maybe the mediterranean?” Dactory talks over the grumbling kettle, “Pretty sure the mushroom has blue cheese in it. Which is, no offense, fucking rancid.”

“Speak for yourself, I like stilton.” Glockenspiel tosses the unwanted packets into the cupboard, they smack off the tupperware and fall back on the counter. Very elegant Glock. “What I don’t like is how retardedly placed the pasta box is.”

“Well maybe stop throwing them and they might go in.”

“But Daaaac, I like making them suffer!”

“Oooh, like it rough do they?”

Glockenspiel replies with what could only be described as a crow’s battlecry before battering the risotto packets against the counter repeatedly. Dactory chortles at the deranged deed and nearly fucking dies at Glock’s “YEAH YOU FUCKING LIKE THAT DON’T YE? LOVE GETTING FUCKING POUNDED?”

“Oh bang me harder daddy!” Dactory moans, with the energy of a whiny yandere girl quivering before her crush, “Fucking pulverise me!”

“AWW I’LL FUCKING BANG YA SO HARD YOU EXPLODE!”

“Oh _god_ yes!” Dactory is now pulling full on sex noises and, believe me, it’s about as horrific as you’d imagine. Come on, this is moaning from the middle-aged crackle throat of androgyny with a face too fucked to iron. Bit like the grizzly swooning a drunken forty-year-old woman would do over some fit guy in his twenties. Okay, apparently I’m just describing my mum now. Yeah, I deeply apologise for that imagery.

“Can you two stop having sex in there!?” Rade calls from the sitting room. Dorothy and Ellix have been reduced to cuddling into each other in a cringe-infested horror. “You’re scaring the lesbians!” She sighs, turning to the said couple, “Yeah, they do this all the time. Chaotic fuckers.”

Dorothy winces as another accentuated whine tumbles out of the kitchenette, “...Is that Dactory?”

“Yep.”

Dorothy plants her face into the floor.


	5. Ellix Hides the Options

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like an idiot. Rade is NOT amused.

Ellix walks into the room with her piping hot coffee and slowly eases herself into the give of a beanbag. As much as she's not free to leave this painting of a ship, at least there's beanbags. They fix everything. She takes her first sip of coffee and everything seems to clarify for a moment.

She hadn't really been paying attention to the rest of the room and she only now notices Glockenspiel draped on their stomach across the sofa, drooling over the arm. God, what a way to sell yourself as a charm! Of course, they're out for the count and their sole streamer is flopped like a sad excuse for a tassel. The grace of it just makes Ellix laugh.

What bemuses her is how the fuck Glock fell asleep like that, with their scratchy-looking costume on of all things. Seriously, they could _not_ be comfortable with the flares of their collar buried into their neck like that. Also, sofas aren't great for sleeping on, especially not on your stomach with arms and legs hanging off and your throat pressed into the arm of the seat. Ellix learned that the hard way, back in the old days of her sleep-deprived ass keeling out after the graveyard shifts she used to pull in a cleaning job.

In a way, it's somewhat reassuring that these seemingly elegant creatures commit to their own trainwrecks too. In another way, Ellix is thinking of something that could be described as far worse than a trainwreck: How to wake Glockenspiel up. The Indie Disaster! In cinemas right fucking now because I'm literally about to write it.

Ellix takes a lovely long gulp of coffee to take the crust out of her brain. If she remembers correctly, Rade—to understate—pretty much death-threatened her if she was to go stealing the Options hot chocolate. Perhaps the old flute crashed on the sofa would face similar charges. Giggling to herself, she dashes out to the kitchenette, checking the halls for any sign of Rade. Satisfied that she _might_ survive this procedure, Ellix slips into the bright little room and climbs the counter. Of course, with these creatures being tall, everything is just out of human reach unless you're willing to do some mountaineering. And of course that fucker Rade made sure the Options was put on the top shelf! Stretching enough for her top to slip out of her belt, Ellix reaches the powdered treasure. She jumps down and fixes her shirt before sneaking back into the sitting room.

Now, nestling the tub in Glock's crooked arm in full view would be pretty easy, but it's just not authentic. No, if anyone was going to steal from Rade, they'd at least try to conceal it. You know, for their own fucking safety.

Ellix creeps over, grabs two jutting flares of Glock's collarpiece and carefully pulls, lifting the strutter up. Not too much, just enough to fit the hot chocolate underneath them. Besides, this bitch weighs a crap-tonne. She gently settles them back down and thanks at least forty gods that they're a heavy sleeper. Hot chocolate completely hidden, Ellix darts away and wriggles back into the beanbag excitedly. She checks the clock. Half seven. Rade had said she was going to be up at eight, maybe. This morning is going to get very interesting indeed…

***

A whine of something motorised and distant wakes Dorothy from what was a fairly peaceful slumber. Her eyes flutter open to meet the diamond window above, the full circumference of Kell-Ryva's grumbling engine racing by. The whine came from there, it must've been that. Dorothy sinks a little further into the bedding, enjoying the disorientating view. It reminds her of home, lying in the top bunk and staring out the portal window, imagining she's on one of those spinning entertainment rides that are apparently a thing on Earth. To be honest, as much as she would never want to touch the planet with a ten foot pole, she'd do it if it meant she could have a go on one of those rides. The real feel of it must be exhilarating.

But anyhow. This is no home she's warming up to, and she should probably see if there's a reasonable way out. As much as the aliens have got their best smiles on, they did electrocute her. That shit doesn't go down well in her books. The welcoming gestures of the aliens could quite well be repentance for the inconvenience, but why would such a technologically advanced creature with a clear superiority complex be apologising. There's bound to be more to this. She doesn't know, all she knows is she doesn't fancy sticking around to find out. She reaches over to tap Ellix on hopefully the arm and not the crotch. Not there. She snaps up. She finds herself alone in the bed.

The duvet has been messily shuffled, her partner must already be up. What the fuck? Ellix is never up before her, the lazy git. In saying that, they are on an alien fucking ship, maybe that's made her more alert than usual. Ah well, Dorothy picks her ass out of bed, wrapping herself in the quilt because fuck it, she can. Escaping the ship is important, but so is locating and snuggling Ellix in the form of a duvet monster.

She passes Rade on the way to the sitting room, who kinda gives her that look like she's going to judge but couldn't even be bothered. It's too early for that.

"Hiya!" is the only warning Ellix gets before she's brutally attacked be a very happy Dorothy, getting swiftly swaddled in the duvet wings.

"Shhh," she whispers into Dorothy's ear, "Don't wake up Glock."

Dorothy looks over to see the multi-coloured disgrace sprawled across the sofa, "Wow, sleeping like that is a superpower."

"I know, they're totally gonna regret it when they get major cramps," Ellix presses closer to Dorothy. She hums in agreement.

"Alright! Who thinks they're fucking funny!"

Ellix can barely contain herself, she snorts with laughter before haphazardly covering her mouth. Dorothy gives her a sceptical glance. Ellix hushes her before she can say anything, and does everything in her power to shut the fuck up herself.

Rade storms into the room with none of serenity of her usual self. She gives Glockenspiel a glance, then shoots a glare at both Ellix and Dorothy. They remain completely silent as she tries to figuratively pry their guts out with her spreading splay of eyes.

"Well?" she hisses.

"Well what?" Ellix asks, mock offended by her aggressive glare.

"Did you take it?"

"Sorry, did I take what?"

"Options. Hot chocolate. Where is it?"

Ellix gestures in frustration, "I don't know! Why would I have took your hot chocolate? That's yours," give her her dues, Ellix can lie out of her back teeth like a pro, "And Dorothy's only up, so I highly doubt she took it."

Rade scoffs, breaking the gullet-tightening stare, "So who took it then?" She only gets a shrug as an answer. Exasperated, she sighs and presses her hand into her head, and Ellix has to fight everything to not to break into a mirth. She says something under her breath, neither Ellix or Dorothy hear it but it's probably for the best.

"Glockenspiel!" Rade barks at a volume that Ellix didn't even think was possible for her. The named strutter startles awake with an undignified squawk and practically hides behind the arm of the sofa.

"Fuck sake Rade, near shit mys—"

"Have you seen my hot chocolate?"

"Uh, no. Why?"

"Because it's missing. Funny enough."

"Oh, right," Glockenspiel stretches, seething from the cold-induced cramps that have set into their legs. After making a melodramatic groan of a yawn, they sit up, "Alright, I'll help you look if ya want?"

"That's a fucking joke isn't it?" Rade mutters, scowling at them.

"Wh-what?" Glockenspiel is confused. Scared, actually. Rade points to the tub of Options on the sofa. They gape at the finding, "Rade, I swear to god I dunno how this got here!"

"Oh sure, it just fucking walked itself out of the cupboard? Yeah?" Rade walks over, snatching the tub.

"I'm serious, I don't know why it's here!"

Rade isn't buying it, she leans close and her voice gargles into a growl, "You needn't have taken any of it you little shit."

"I didn't!"

What neither of them expect is for Ellix to just burst out laughing. Yeah, she gave up. Besides, Rade was getting a little feisty about it. She tries to talk mid-laughter, and it takes her a few attempts. But eventually she explains that she took the hot chocolate and hid it underneath Glockenspiel as a joke. Rade and Glock just stare at her, completely disgusted, and perhaps a little embarrassed that they were outsmarted by the likes of Ellix. Dorothy isn't even surprised, she just flops down and dubs her partner the typical lost cause.

Once her laughter finally subsides, Ellix realises nobody else had been laughing with her. Jesus, what a boring bunch. Rade still looks prepared to commit genocide, tentacles clamped tightly around her reunited possession. Well… this could have gone better.

"Aight! I'mma head out!" Glockenspiel slaps the cushions before coming to a stand, "Bathroom time for me." The room has a tautness that could be cut with a knife and Glock ain't sticking it any longer. They slip out the doorway, leaving Ellix and Dorothy alone to the mercy of a highly unamused Rade.


	6. Dactory's Morning Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isn't this everyone's morning routine?

The chirping of a noise that makes no sense decides to persist. Odd. They can't nip it in the bud like most things they see or hear. Maybe it's a phone ringing. They search in some stripy-looking drawers for the noisy little shit. Then stall. That's nobody calling. Oh fuck. Fuck!

Dactory jolts awake and, on an unknown pocket of energy, snatches the tablet and slaughters its alarm. Oh marvellous, that alarm's been going off for the past fifteen minutes. They groan, ultimately willing to cancel their mission, their career and about 70% of their love-life for just another half an hour of kip. Unfortunately, there's no choice in that, poor Dactory's gonna have to get their stiff ass out of bed. 

"Oh god dammit," Dactory's one of those people who learned to rip phrases mid-yawn. On the most part, however, it's just profanity. As they stretch, something in their shoulder pops and they're somewhat glad of it. They twirl their wrists just to hear them go too. Then proceeds the oh-so-famous Full Body Joint Crack™, which is predominantly composed of them trying and failing to crack their back. Legend has it that if you try touching or holding a conversation with Dactory during this ritual, homicide can ensue. It's said that the screams of the sorry trespassers can be heard over the sound of the morning kettle boiling. 

Speaking of which.

"Glock! You up?"

"Yeah!"

"Make 's a cuppa tea, will ya?"

"Big cup?"

"Ohh _yes!"_

It's one of those days, or at least emulated days. This asshat has quite the quota to fulfil, and it's going to require some rocket fuel. Hmm, time to be friendly to the little Astros, toss them some homeworld intel, bake a cake for them, try not to say anything _too_ socially unacceptable. Ah yes, just another day in paradise. 

And it's at this moment Dactory realises they forgot to pack the baking soda.


	7. Psychological Generalisations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not abusing my characters what do you mean?

Dactory sits in the armchair with an intent for stiffness. One leg draped over the other—an old unhealthy habit they could never get out of—they tut at the magazine they’re reading. It’s flapped to life before being ripped across to the next page. There’s a momentary silence as Dactory reads, disturbed by only a twitch of an eyestalk. 

“What?” Rade asks.

“Shush!” Dactory lifts a hand, impatient. They turn a streamer to face the page, the other just shudders under the desperate attempt to refocus. Rade recoils slightly at her partner’s rudeness, but says nothing, deciding that further interjection might result in something closer to unbridled profanity. The pause is unnecessarily tense, and seems to last far longer than the six seconds it claims to be.

“Right. What the fuck?” Dactory lifts their head with the most mind-fucked expression they can muster, the magazine goes slack in their grip. 

“What is it?” Rade asks again.

Dactory takes a moment to wallow in the loss of all faith, then exclaims, “This is the biggest pile of bull I’ve ever read! Swear to God I’m gonna kill her.”

Ellix and Dorothy look to each other for a moment, startled, “Kill who?”

“Oh just someone back home,” Dactory utters with a sigh, “She wrote this and it seems half pulled out of her ass.”

Glockenspiel snorts, “So basically the Privacy and Cookie Policy for Earther internet?”

“Oh God don’t even go there.”

Glockenspiel chuckles, reaching for her cup of alcohol and caffeine infused Rocket Fuel™, she takes a sip and winces at its sweetness, “So, what’s the tea?”

Dactory sighs again, eyes losing gaze, “Fucking Girole with her write-up. She’s going into psychology and it’s pretty clear she's no fucking clue what she’s on about. Like, look at this!” They clamber to a standing and show both Rade and Glock the paragraph in question. Rade is apparently completely lost and unwilling to give a shit, whereas Glock seems to be going through an astral projection to try and see the point. Regardless, neither have a clue. Dactory groans, realising they’re going to have to do that thing they suck at: explaining. “She’s trying to say that parental bonds are guaranteed to bring out aggressive behaviour from parents in cases of offspring being killed by an offender. It’s bullshit!”

“Is it though?” Rade is sceptical.

“Yes, it’s a complete generalisation on her behalf! She can’t just _assume_ all parents will act out in aggression.”

“Why not?” Rade frowns, confused, “I know both of mine would. So would all yours, let’s face it.”

“Yes yes, Rade, I know. I’m not denying it’s a common response, but it all depends on context. We’re both only childs, our parents have no replacements if we disappear, that and our society kindles entitlement.”

“Sorry? Entitlement?”

Glockenspiel cackles, “Nah Dac, that’s just you!”

“You too!” Rade snaps, “You’re the biggest whinge in existence.”

“Oi!” Glockenspiel shoves Rade, it’s returned with a one-handed tackle into the sofa, leaving Glock to only writhe uselessly to try and escape. “Rade fucking let go!” they squawk, slapping her dangling sleeve in a move of pathetic-ass spoilt brat syndrome. Rade just giggles and lets her victim throw a hissy fit, until Dactory finally decides to crawl out of their mirth and play referee. 

Dorothy watches the entire interaction carefully, mentally jotting down the similarities these creatures seem to have with her. The playful mucking around reminds her so heavily of home it’s somewhat sickening. The bitching is familiar too, like, she’s lost count of the comments she’s made about Para and all others at her level of authority. It’s surreal, seeing pieces of herself in these aliens. They ain’t nothing like the big bony hunks of nightmare fuel she saw in those sci-fi movies she keeps in her locker. They don’t have _colonisation_ dripping off twelve tongues and _genocide_ pumping through every fibre of their being. They seem to be quite mellow—domesticated—if anything. Or at least no part of them aligns with a monster. 

It’s perhaps a good thing that Dorothy doesn’t know that the “PG” these creatures use after a year to address it actually stands for _Post Genocidia._

“But yes, context my dears!” Dactory seems to have composed themself, “Our parents would go mad because they won’t _accept_ people just going around killing us. We live in a society that—”

Rade groans, “Here we fucking go.”

“Oh shut up ya shit, you asked. Look, we live in a society that has no reason to kill others. We’ve enough resources to go around. What Miss Dingus Girole here has forgot is that she’s dealing with a semi-barbaric society, not us. Creatures are actually fighting for resources and parents can _expect_ mortality of their offspring. Creatures like that tend to react with more tolerance.”

“I guess it’s less mouths to feed,” Dorothy adds. 

Dactory swivels around, impressed that at least _someone_ is following, “Quite right my darling. Sometimes it even goes as far as a relief to see your children kick the bucket."

"I mean, does it really matter if Girole's doing a retard? Gives you the upperhand does it not?" Rade suggests, grabbing her hot chocolate to pull the beverage-sipping thing that I apparently must have all my characters doing.

“I wouldn’t care if I didn’t care about the, well… At least for record’s sake,” Dactory’s voice goes delicate, as if pattering the subject, “Plamyan records can’t really afford to have misleads in knowledge due to an uneducated generalisation. It would be rather insulting to the race would it not?”

"God, you're such a nitpicker!" Ellix stabs in, "Any parent in their right mind would be out for _blood_ if someone killed their child!"

Dactory sighs, fingers burying into their brows, it takes them a moment to return to full composure, "Ellixander, dear, indoor voices please. And my point still stands, not all of these parents are _in_ their right mind."

"Then why'd they have kids?"

"Ellix, do you know what I mean by semi-barbaric?"

"Nope, you never explained it."

Something seems to audibly deteriorate in Dactory's form, and they can barely speak for their exasperation, "Can you at least guess?"

"What? Are they sexist or something?"

Dactory leaves the room.

***

When Dactory returns to the room, maybe half an hour later, they're wearing a striped blue scarf. It isn’t a second until they’ve settled down on the armchair once more, cuddling the accessory close. Fingers absent-mindedly stroke across its bobbled fibres, curling the thin fabric between them. Their eyes don't focus on anyone in the room, instead staring blankly at the walls.

"So, um," Dorothy breaks them out of their trance, "I told Ellix what you meant by semi-barbaric, or at least what I thought you meant. Medieval or something?"

"Yes, yes, anywhere between the first large societies to industrialisation. Higher civilisations start at that point, for Earth that was the Victorian age."

"Oh, cool," Dorothy responds, genuinely intrigued at how these creatures actually go out of their way to categorise worlds, "So what's beyond that?"

"Higher defines anything from industrialisation to your times and even further," Dactory shifts to get comfortable, actually making eye contact with her, "The only thing beyond it is a fully self-sustaining civilisation, which is anything that properly harnesses their star, or other stars, or even blackholes for energy. Those are set out to last until the death of the universe." 

"Oh, well, guess we're fucked then?" Ellix quips. Dorothy gives her a glare.

"Mate, we do use our star. Mothership is self-sustaining and I mean it could probably move to another solar system when the sun dies. We're not fucked, but the Earthers are," Dorothy explains. Ellix gives it a moment before agreeing. Sure, anything that shits on the Earthers makes her happy.

Dactory hums skeptically, but resists a response.

Ellix looks to them, recalling the last discussion, "But yeah, I sorta see what you mean now about parents not losing their shit over kids dying. I mean, back in the day it was probably happening all the time, and for good reason. Like being sick or starving."

Dactory perks up, "Indeed, yes. If you think of it in medieval terms you can probably see why I'm frustrated with Girole's shitty old analysis."

"Why do yous do analysis anyway? Bored?"

Rade coughs. Dactory seems a little thrown off guard, but they collect themself quickly, "Um, no, not quite. It’s for a record of places we explore. But I won’t lie, it _is_ fascinating to see the trends. Societies are remarkably similar once you inspect enough of them."

Ellix snorts, "Good God you lot must be bored fuckers! Imagine being so nerdy that you fucking go out to explore new worlds and think 'Hmmm now this political system looks familiar. Wow! How fascinating! How utterly engrossing!'"

Rade and Glockenspiel laugh while Dactory cocks a streamer in mock offence. Dorothy splutters her kinship because she must think she's up there with the big boys. And Ellix agrees all too quickly.

"I know, ya boring ol' sack o' shit!" She shoves her playfully, “Love your surveying and blogging about whatever weird social experiment you come up with!” She then gestures to the strutters, "Like seriously, you lot are _so_ fucking exhaustive! Do yous have anything better to do?"

"Of course," Dactory replies. They chuckle, stroking the tassels of their scarf, "I could be writing erotica."

Glockenspiel pipes in, "Oh yeah, of course _you_ would ya smutslut!"

"Now now darling, let's not be crass about—"

She points to their scarf, "That why you're wearing that? Aww Dac you feeling like a little bitch?"

"Now Glock there's no need to—"

"Bet you wanna write some porn about your ol' Damselfly don'tcha? Some good old 'UWU Daddy Damsel come 'ere and _raw_ me against the library desk!'"

"GLOCK!"

Their answer is her suffocated cackle accompanied with a series of strained sex noises. But, I mean, this is Glockenspiel, so nobody should be surprised. Rade can’t help a soft chuckle at Dactory’s utterly appalled face and the clutching grip of their scarf. And she _certainly_ can’t resist a sly side-eye in their direction. Dactory almost yelps.

“Now now, enough! This is _gravely_ inappropriate!”

“Nah this is great!” Ellix announces as she leans back into her beanbag, arms folded behind her head as if to watch the spectacle. Dactory gives her a glare, but it only seems to put words into her mouth, “So getting fucked on the library desk? Is that even allowed?”

“Ellix, I need you to shut up. Right now.”

“Why? You’d actually _do_ that?”

“Ellix.”

“Oh my fucking god! You would!” she sits up, “Fuck, can I watch?”

“Eww!” Dorothy whines, giving her a reasonably disgusted look.

“Yes Ellix, eww indeed,” Dactory follows on, “I shall _not_ be doing such a thing, let alone will you be watching.”

Ellix folds her arms, tensing just a little, “Why, you chicken shit?”

“No! I’m responsible!”

“Chicken shit.”

“No Ellix, responsible. Not only that, Damselfly is dead.”

Oh.

Ellixander cuts herself short in her tracks, a perturbed look on her face for just a moment before the frantic plethora of apologies fall out of her mouth. Dorothy decides to shift away slightly, withdrawing herself from the conversation. Ellix, without any grounding support and with little alien eyes all upon her, tucks into herself in shame. Iterations of the self-hatred she holds rise like crescendo, and practically whisper from her lips as she repeats over and over her remorse. Dactory stares for a moment, a little worried. On a whim, they cut her off. She looks up at them.

“Look, Ellix darling, it’s fine. She passed away years ago, it’s well behind me.” 

“Even still I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Perhaps not,” Dactory’s voice softens, “But you didn’t know, did you? Now now, let’s not make a scene. It’s alright. Calm down.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

“I know, you’ve told me at least six times now.”

“Sorry.”

“Seven.”

“Fuck—Shit! I dunno what else to do!”

“Perhaps change the subject?” 

“Yeah!” Glockenspiel agrees, “Let’s talk about… Hmm…”

Rade says something, just not quite loud enough to hear.

“What’s that dear?”

“The cake.”

“The cake?” Dactory repeats, before straightening in alarm, “Oh shit! The cake! Fuck! What time is it?” 

Rade points to the clock, “Half eleven.”

“Oh thank fuck! Thought it was later,” Dactory does a big stretch, speaking half in yawn, _“Suppose_ I’ll go check it then, eh?”

“Yeah, good plan.”

Dactory growls as they stumble themself out of the seat, shaking into cohesion. Their streamers flailing like drenched dogears and feathers ruffling into fully-fleshed fluff. They stroke it down to neatness before making a lively strut out to the kitchen. 

“Wait, what cake?” Ellix nearly jumps out of her seat. Dorothy giggles at her enthusiasm.


	8. Marble Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems that the aliens keep humans as pets. Multi-functional ones at that...

A scent drifts into the room, Dorothy recognises its edibility long before Ellix can even put a finger on what it is, despite already being forewarned. But you can't blame her, it's not like her family did a whole lot of baking while trying to make ends meet. Dorothy's great-grandmother Faye, however, was adamant that her descendants could at least make their own biscuits, be it on Earth or in space. But enough on that. The dogs want the bone. And quite on cue, the door opens and in walks Dactory, plate of fresh cake in hand. In the other hand is a knife.

“Got cake. It’s marble cake. I presume you’d like some?” Dactory lowers the plate to their eye-level, letting them see the swirls on its top. Its patterns having a striking similarity to a coffee you’d buy for half your fucking income out of a place called _Café Merdique des Légumes_ or something. Regardless, Ellix and Dorothy aren’t the classy kind, and ain’t gonna admire the beauty of something that will probably be sloshing unattractively in their guts within 3.1 minutes. Dactory sets the plate on the table and presses the knife into the cake, it gives a little before subduing to the blade. They slice it into enough segments to feed eight, knowing full well it probably won’t. Then walks in a figure that Dorothy and Ellix both have to do a double take of.

It’s… Human.

Small and dainty, sporting a button-up blouse with puffed shoulders and a skirt that lips at her knees, revealing the ends of a fully-fleshed petticoat. A black tattoo adorns her pale arm, the word “Virgo” carved cleanly into her skin. Her hair falls to the middle of her back, smooth and fair blonde. I’d describe it as “delicate locks of pearly innocence” if I was some overly poetic idiot and not so clinically blunt. But alas, go fuck yourself. Also this human in particular doesn’t deserve the lark, despite her demeanor and how she flutters over to Dactory as if they aren’t holding a boning knife.

“Ohh, Dactory, I want a bit!” she chirps, her voice twirling high and tuned at slightly imperious. There's something aristocratic about it. Dorothy’s guts utterly convulse at the sound; upper-class was never a section of society she enjoyed the company of, and this spoilt brat of a human is no exception. Dactory complies upon first try and offers the prettied-up human a slice, she nabs it with an unnecessary degree of flamboyance and flops down on a beanbag to eat.

Ellix makes eye contact with her, whispering a question to her about if she’s been taken in too, and if she’s okay. She merely tries to laugh with a bite of cake in her mouth. Ellix is baffled.

“Any good?” Dactory asks whilst handing slices to Ellix and Dorothy. The human responds with a full-mouthed nod.

“Who’s she?” Ellix hisses as she receives her bit of cake.

“Vitra. Needn’t worry about her, she’s a sweetheart.”

Dorothy is not quite convinced, “Did you take in others?”

Dactory shakes their head.

“Then why is she here?”

“Yeah,” Ellix is apprehensive, “Why?”

Dactory chuckles, settling themself beside Vitra. As if second nature, Vitra leans into them. “She’s a pet,” Dactory begins to stroke down her back, “We’ve known about Earth for a good long time. Our race essentially dropped by and collected a few humans back in the days of religious wars and the budding of science… I want to say the 17th century, not sure. Anyway, we took young humans and raised them on our home planet. Not all of them are pets,” Dactory pauses, focusing on Vitra and whatever affectionate noise she just made, it makes them smile, “But this little snugglemuffin certainly is. Aren’t you?” Vitra hums happily in agreement.

Now, if you thought PDA with couples is bad, then you really aren’t ready for the unsettling feeling of watching one of your own kind melt into a creature who has the capacity to blow a hole in your star. Since being the apex predator is all we’ve ever known, it’s fairly uncomfortable to imagine ourselves as an oblivious pet in some Higher Power’s masterplan. Erotic, if you will, but fucking weird. Yeah, now I’ve just realised I’ve made religion sound really kinky but have fun because now you’ve realised it too. Fucking Depeche Mode gonna come at me with a copyright case. Anyway, my point is that we, as humans, see ourselves as a little bit transcendental compared to the likes of a dog or cat or bug. Therefore, when brought to such a level in some alien society, it’s downright derogatory. And it makes Dorothy feel somewhere between moderately and three-seconds-away-from-chundering-ly nauseous. She seethes, fighting all instincts to produce a noise more guttural.

A croaky kind of hum comes from Dactory, their eyes narrowed and fingers pressing a daunting little pattern through Vitra's skirt. She purrs at the treatment. Yeah, even Ellix has to wince at the behaviour.

"Sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?" Dactory asks, eyes never abandoning their smug expression.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" Dorothy isn't playing games.

Dactory chuckles, "Why, it's what you'd expect," their streamers flutter in excitement, "I’m testing the moisture of the cake."

Dorothy and Ellix can't even conjure up a response, they just stare in disbelief at the alien's complete and utter disrespect for the human species. It's creepy. And very, very wrong. Yet Dactory shows nothing short of confidence with their fondling. And when Vitra replies, all hope is lost.

"I'd say it would melt in your mouth."

It's not even the fact that this alien is prodding a human with what appears to be suggestive intent, it's the fact the recipient is _enjoying_ her own humiliation. Dorothy and Ellix turn to each other and both share a look of pure disgust. It also makes them uneasy. Are these aliens renowned for this? Is this what they planned to do with the humans they got ahold of? Dorothy clamps her legs together and grips her waist in a bearhug, shuddering at the concept.

"Wow, way to creep out the guests, Dac!" Glockenspiel's voice clamours from the doorway. In follows her clenched form, complete with tense shoulders and an unamused scowl, "Get a fucking room, seriously."

"My ship, my rules darling," Dactory scoffs, rearing to kiss the human in their lap.

"My grasp on social customs, my rules. Bitch."

Dactory gives Glock a look, it's one of primarily annoyance, but also a slight sliver of embarrassment. Glock simply returns it with a stern glare, she ain't messing around. Rather than awkwardly stare this one out in front of the Astros, Dactory decides it's perhaps best to comply. They reposition Vitra in their arms so she can be held bridal style as they come to a stand. She wraps arms around them greedily, nuzzling into their woolen collar. Pleased, Dactory noses in and kisses her straight on her lips, a streamer squirming in what could quite well be arousal.

Dorothy has never seen anything quite like it, and it's borderline making her want to fucking kill herself. After taking one look at Dactory, you would know their lips weren't supposed to be kissed. And certainly not by someone of Vitra's age, she looks like she's in her twenties, yet decided to mould mouths with that repulsive creature. Dorothy doesn't even want to think about its connotations. How does sex even work between those two? Actually, no, she doesn't want to know.

Ever.


	9. Keep Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scene that I'm still debating whether or not is making the cut, as it serves very little in driving plot. However, it does give a little bit of insight into the world of Plamyah and its moons, orbiting the red dwarf of Beamest.

The page leaps up at them with a toned colour and archaic handwriting, ink splotches, a smell, the lot. Dactory rests a hand upon it, before sweeping it up in one swift move of flamboyance. They hold it eye-level to read the scribe. Their plucky eyestalks closing together like the teeth of a venus fly trap, clasping onto the delicately woven words. The page reads:

_“We found footing to get up the hill, then grounded ourselves with a sight you wouldn’t be feeding the dogs. Beamest gave us a charming death glare, and in a slow, sensuous gradient, painted the sky red. Fiery shades touched every tree and spread across the river, dimming everything in what felt like a blackout at a slow-dance. I looked to my cousin and his streamers blowing in the hilltop wind, wavering in the blood-red light like flags too tattered to even be called such. Beamest had kir word, spoken so low on the spectrum that it hurt to look at. My eyes struggled to focus, the world crackled in the growing darkness. Maroon loomed over the sky’s fire, swallowing it in another wave of darkness. Beamest made no attempt to relight it, ki was probably too busy listening to the squalls the birds made and the cocky cackling of the pack predators. My cousin looked to me, he’s scared of wolves see, but I couldn’t offer any sanctuary in my reply._

_Fast forward a couple hours, there's a good chance I’m going to die tonight. My cousin is asleep beside me and I’ve been left with a branch to fend off the creatures. I can hear them, they’re laughing. They know I’m useless. I’m a writer, not a fighter. I hope I’m remembered like that. I hope my cousin will be okay.”_

“Fuck,” they breathe, realising they just read the last words of an old mastermind from Beta. He died two months ago, in the arsehole of nowhere apparently. Well, obviously, now that Dactory’s read the fucking thing. Half in fear, and half out of a nagging suggestion of bad omens, they slap the page back—face down—on the table. Cursed writing. They slip across the room and lift their mug of tea, sipping tentatively. Nothing about the liquid is any more sobering, it only drives the sinking feeling in their gut deeper. When their lips detach from the mug, they notice the room feels much, much colder. It seems to stretch, walls slowly creeping away from them. They do their best to ignore it, saying more to themself than anything:

“Well that’s none of my business.”


End file.
